First stop: Greenville, SC. Autumn and I have been here a couple of times, since this is the next closest place to have the BMW serviced. I stayed downtown, so I could walk along Main Street. Beautiful weather accompanied me on the ride from Macon and throughout my day-long stay.

Next stop, Asheville, NC, and the Biltmore Estate. Again, I am familiar with Asheville, since Autumn and I spent a few nights there for our first wedding anniversary. Again, I stayed downtown, had several great meals, and took many many photos. Autumn and I never got to the Biltmore, but I managed a quick visit on my way out of town. My visit to both Asheville and the Biltmore was again accompanied by unseasonably wonderful weather.

Next, Pigeon Forge, TN, for a visit with Dad via the Blue Ridge Parkway. About eighty miles of mountaintop road separate Asheville from Cherokee, NC. I’ve traveled on the Blue Ridge several times, so I was ready for an aggressive ride. About thirty miles from the end of the Parkway in Cherokee, my back tire ran over something in the road; it felt like a rock, but nothing appeared in the rear-view mirror. I continued riding, but the next curve — a gentle right-hand turn — pulled me into the left lane. My bike had lost all maneuverability because the rear tire was flat. I managed to get to the side of the road and examine my tire: a centimeter hole was neatly cut into the thick part of the tire. I had never seen anything like it. Some guys in Waynesville managed to help me out with a new tire, but I was nervous on the bike for the rest of the trip.

Finally, Louisville, KY. After a couple of days in with Dad in Pigeon Forge, I left for Louisville, about 270 miles northwest. The day started out normally: sun and a bit of coolness leftover from overnight. By the time I got about twenty miles north of Knoxville, the rain started and continued all day, getting the worst about 100 miles from Louisville. Not only did I have to contend with the rain, but the temperature slowly dropped throughout the day. By the time I managed to get to the Galt House (my hotel for the next week in Louisville), I was drenched to the bones. I’m honestly lucky to have made it. The rain was never really heavy, but it was relentless. I’ve never had a worse day’s ride.

I was in Louisville for about a week, and the morning I left was overcast, drizzly, but not as cold. I donned rain gear immediately, but by the time I arrived in Danville, I was able to strip that off. Another couple of hours found me back in Tennessee where the clouds cleared and the sun brought its warmth. Another two nights at Dad’s and I headed from Macon. The ride was long and hot, but nothing like my trek to Louisville.

In all, I put 1280 miles on the bike. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have just taken my new Mini. Next time.

Honda unveiled its new Insight at the LA motor show last week, and it looks pretty sharp. It slated to go on-sale this spring and uses a new technology called “Eco Assist”:

Eco Assist combines multiple functions: the driver-activated ECON mode that optimizes control of the continuously variable transmission, engine and related powertrain components to conserve fuel; and a feedback function that uses speedometer background color to provide real-time guidance on environmentally responsible driving. An economy scoring function further provides feedback about current driving techniques, as well as feedback on cumulative, long-term driving style.

Sounds pretty cool, and it looks pretty cool — like a combination of the original Insight and a Prius. The feedback mentioned above is like an emissions score that “encourages drivers to take an interest in developing fuel efficient driving habits over the long term,” states the press release. It would be too slick if Honda added Wi-Fi to the car, so it could automatically upload the pertinent information to a tracking web site — with user permission, of course. That way, users could post a badge on their blogs, for instance.

Apparently the price point is going to be very competitive at around $20K. We’ll see. There are no other details, like MPG ratings, on Honda’s web site yet, but Wikipedia suggests that the MPG will be comparable to the first generation’s.

Now, if only I can talk Autumn into getting rid of her sorry Beetle.

Along similar lines, BMW announced that they will soon begin importing two diesel vehicles to the US: the X5 and the 335d. Check ‘em out. They are both sharp, and both get pretty good milage for being straight-up diesels. Still, I think I’d go for a hybrid.

After teaching this evening, I rode from Macon State to my brother’s house in Woodstock, 114 miles by my odometer. I spent most of the day packing up the bike: washing the dust off the side bags, rolling up the clothes I would need for the next four days, and double-checking that I had all I needed. Rain gear; maps, including my Mad Map of the Smoky Mountains; Charles Stross‘ Accelerando, my current post-cyberpunk, pre-singularity sf novel (great stuff, too); iPod; snackies (prepared by my wonderful wife); toiletries; travel log; camera and accouterments, including the Holga. The bike, too, was readied the day before: tire pressure checked, oil checked, gas tank filled, emergency gear under the seat, all surface areas washed.

Autumn and her family are off to Destin for the weekend, and since I went with them last year and I couldn’t remember the last time I had ridden in the mountains, I decided to take a long, winding ride on some roads familiar, some unexplored. Yes, I was invited to go with the Anderson Family, which I appreciate, but I needed to test my long-dormant mettle on some twisties. I ride daily, but not on challenging roads, so I’ll push myself pretty hard over the next few days. I have an approximate itinerary, but the only thing I’m certain of now is my general direction, that I’ll be at Mom’s tomorrow night, and Dad’s on Friday night.

The ride to Tim’s was a warm-up; I hope I can sleep tonight.

The R1200R is an evolution of the R1150R and R850R, which had combined sales of almost 60,000 units since 2001. BMW feels that there is market demand for a “roadster” type motorcycle that provides a continuance of the BMW classic design combining “unique character with timeless elegance”.

The new Roadster takes up the general trend towards enhanced dynamics without neglecting the strengths of the basic concept, combining a significantly higher standard of agility with excellent all-round touring qualities.

The 1,200-cc power unit develops 109 hp and thus exceeds the output of the former engine by almost 28%. This flat-twin power unit comes with the same level of development already boasted in the R 1200 RT, with the oil cooler on the new Roadster now fitted behind the wheel fork.

The bike is still air-cooled and uses the same engine as the GS.

Compared with the R 1150 R, the new Roadster offers almost 28% more power at a higher engine speed and approximately 17% more torque. And at the same time the engine is 7% lighter than its predecessor and BMW claims that it’s particularly smooth and sophisticated, reducing vibrations to a minimum.

109 horsepower will probably feel a bit more spritely than an already very responsive R1150R’s 89hp.

I’m nost sure I like what they did with the tank stylings, nor with the gauges, but I do like the overall look of the bike, even fully loaded. It appears that the center stand is now “optional” — bummer, but it does come with a standard “electronic immobilizer” coded to the key. I think I’d rather have a center stand.

A few notes on the design:

Compact in its overall proportions, the new R 1200 R consciously features body components reduced in terms of their form and style in order to highlight the technical features of the drivetrain and, in particular, of the engine.

The headlight also pays tribute to classic motorcycle design then carried forward to the most modern and advanced technology through the free-form reflectors. Indeed, close integration of the headlight into the overall line of the motorcycle creates an almost “bullish” front end harmonizing smoothly with the slender proportions of the rear section. [ . . . ]

The optical “lightness” of the new R 1200 R also comes out clearly from the rider’s perspective: With the radiator at the side having been dropped, the entire tank area is now a lot more compact and slender. And being made of sheet metal in genuine BMW tradition, the fuel tank also highlights the classic design and style of the entire machine.

Last but certainly not least, the color concept again accentuates the character of the new BMW R 1200 R, the three color variants available as an option interpreting the classic roadster theme in a very different, distinctive manner.

I guess it’s that “lightness” that I might not like, reminding me too much of the tank of the Honda 919 (not that the Honda sucks).

Well, I’ll be excited to try one out. Maybe in a few years, I’ll actually be able to afford one. ‘Bout time for this bike, BMW! The only thing I didn’t see was the price. I’m thinking about $13K.

It had been raining steadily on us since we left Robbinsville, and my rain gear had been keeping me nicely dry and warm, except for my hands. The rain brought lower temperatures, and the elevation didn’t help. The BMW’s windshield didn’t keep the elements off my hands like the Nighthawk’s, so my gloves were quickly soaked, and my hands quickly became as cold and cramped and shriveled as a zombie’s. I remember thinking that we should stop soon having just covered about fifty miles since our Mexican lunch in Robbinsville, so that I could improvise something to cover my quickly numbing hands. It suddenly hit me: my new bike has heated grips. Much to my pleasure, after cranking them up to high, my hands became toasty warm, though still damp. I felt foolish that I didn’t remember this sooner.

The whole trip had not been as damp. We had left late on Friday, after getting Thomas’ Superhawk a new tire, and headed north toward Pigeon Forge. Dad was expecting us about 8, and we had nearly 300 miles of mountain roads to cover in about six hours. We made our first stop about 50 miles north of Atlanta, just at the end of I-575 for a Monster energy drink.

We quickly zoomed northeast through Dawsonville — where I had to recycle my Monster energy drink; Thomas didn’t see me stop, but we met up again just south of Dahlonega — then continued up 19 to Blairesville. I’ve taken 19 before, but I didn’t remember the sweet twisties beginning about 15 miles south of said town. Well, heading up, I have to be honest, I didn’t enjoy them all that much. The new bike felt a bit heavy, and my confidence wasn’t what it was on the Nighthawk. I took them as slow as a minivan, and Thomas sped around me to enjoy what I could not. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I made it to our next stop noticing the sun setting quickly. We had quite a ways to go, and it was nearly 7. Where had the time gone?

We made it quickly to Murphy, then Andrews — both of which are on the sweeping four-lane 74 — and turned north on 129 just outside of Robbinsville. We cleared the rest of the way to Deal’s Gap as the sun was setting, and we rode the Dragon in the dark! It was my third time on the Tail, and Thomas’ first. Those were the longest eleven miles I rode that day. We stopped just at the end for a rest and couple of pictures.

Yes, it was dark already. Crazy, huh? If Dad wasn’t expecting us and my cell phone actually got reception, we’d have probably stopped in Robbinsville. Here’s a shot before we rode the last forty miles over the Foothills Parkway to Dad’s.

I think we finally arrived about 10:30 pm. Needless to say: after a couple of beers and a bit of catching up, I was zonked. I knew we’d have more riding to do tomorrow.

We spent the next day — after we waited all morning for the rain to stop and the sky to clear — riding in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I had never been on the Blue Ridge Parkway, so we decided to check it out. Glad we did. Going up the Blue Ridge, I was in the lead, but we were stuck behind the requisite minivan, so our progress was as slow as the scenery was beautiful. After stopping for some pictures and a rest, we headed back, wanting to take it easy today in anticipation of a longer, harder ride the next day. Well, going back, Tom took the lead, and we flew through those long sweepers, like an X-wing through a Death Star trench. Since the road was immaculate, I put a bit more faith in my tires and throttle. The bike responded with a what-have-you-been-waiting-for? growl and showed me what it could do when the rider has a bit more confidence in his German-engineered motorcycle. When the traffic doesn’t interfere, watch out.

That evening was spent at Calhoun’s drinking beer and chatting with Dad and Tom. I wish Dad hadn’t been as busy during this trip, but I’ll catch him next time. Thanks to you and Sharon for the hospitality and the discussions.

Sunday’s ride back to Atlanta was delayed due to some technical problems with Tom’s bike, but after a couple of Harley dudes helped him sort those out, we were on our way. First, we hit the Foothills Parkway, were we met some more Harley dudes.

The sky was overcast, as it had been all morning, but we expected that to clear up anytime, much like it did the previous morning. We made it back through the Dragon within the hour, and my newly found confidence paid off. No, I did not keep up with Tom, but I did well, pushing myself like a runner might: just a bit more everyday to get stronger. I know I was smiling through all 318 curves. To prove I was there, Killboy took two pictures of me riding the Dragon. What a great idea. I plan on ordering copies of both shots; let me encourage my readers to do the same. There was a good crowd at the Gap.

The original plan was to take the Cherohala Skyway after gassing up in Robbinsville. However, we luckily ran into a guy riding a GS who let us know that the authorities had closed the skyway due to a motorcycle accident. According to the rumor, three bikes collided, and one of the riders had to have his leg amputated on the scene. I guess they didn’t want people driving past and seeing something like that. Well, we decided to have lunch at a local Mexican restaurant, and when we were finished, we walked out to rain. The rain has not stopped to this day.

Even though it rained on us the rest of the way, and my bike has been sitting in my driveway since my return, we had a good trip. I’m hoping that the rain god gives us a break soon, so I can get back in the saddle. I need to keep pushing myself, so I can get better. Now I understand the reason for paying a bit more for a BMW, but I’m glad it wasn’t my first bike. I think I’m growing into it well, and it will give me plenty of room for continued growth as long as I have confidence in my machine. Oh, did I mention my heated grips?

I should have more to post and say soon.

I talked to Thomas last night about a ride to the mountains before the summer’s teaching — in a week! — makes getting away more difficult. We’re thinking about leaving tomorrow for a couple of days to hit Deal’s Gap and the Tail of the Dragon. I’ve been itching to see how the 1150 R takes those luscious twisties. If I can only finish my prep…

Since there was not a cloud in the sky all day, I decided to take a ride up 41 to Forsyth, west to Barnesville, south to state road 80 at Roberta, then east to finish where I started, about 70 miles altogether. 41 is beautiful between Macon and Forsyth: rich green trees, open fields of horses and moo-cows, and a curvy two-lane road. The road parallels a train track, and I followed the longest train I had ever seem most for the way; I was moving slightly faster than the mile of diesel-powered boxcars. I made it to Forsyth and looked around the town square for a bit. It seemed like a quaint, small-town that one would expect in the middle of Georgia.

Quitting Forsyth and heading west on 41, I encountered my first taste of rain just east of Barnesville. By the time I stopped to put on my rain gear, the sky had cleared considerably, but I kept the gear on knowing how capricious the weather has been as of late. Barnesville was also quaint a la Forsyth, but I was now concerned at the black clouds on the southwestern horizon, so I made my way to 341 and headed south toward Roberta, knowing that I would probably make it back to Barnesville with Giles sometime this month.

Soon after turning on 341, I was almost killed by this serial-killer van that leisurely pulled out in front of me. I swerved around him and shot him a look through my helmet. The bubba was oblivious, probably thinking about his barbecue dinner or beating his wife: no time to watch out for motorcyclists. As I travelled south — 341 was not as narrow or curvy as 41, so I was able to increase my speed a bit — I noticed this blackness in the south that seemed to be stationary. After about 25 miles, I arrived at a Chevron station on the corner of 341 and 74; it started to rain, though the real blackness seemed to be sitting further south. After a short break to have a Gatorade and talk with the little man who seemed really interested in my R80/7, I decided to head back on 74 rather than continuing south to 80; Roberta would have to wait for another day.

As I rode east on 74, I ran into pockets of rain, but nothing too bad until I got near I-475. Somewhere along the way, I had to switch to my reserve tank. I never know when this is going to happen, since I have no odometer nor a fuel gauge. I figure that my reserve will take me at least 30 miles, so I wasn’t sweating it. The wind and rain picked up, and my face shield began to fog. I couldn’t open it because of the moisture, so I made due with limited visibility. I finally made it to I-475 and decided not to waste any more time: I took the interstate. Exiting at Zebulon, I remembered being on my reserve tank, so I turned into the Texaco to get gas. As I fueled up, the flood hit. Utnapishtim (mythological equivalent of Noah) would have been impressed with this rain. Blackness and sheets all around. Shit. I thought since I was just a mile from the apartment, I would go for it. Mistake.

Something in the engine got wet, and as I sat waiting to turn left — I couldn’t see a damn thing, my glasses and faceshield were covered with water and the foggy manifestation of my own breath — the engine sputtered and stalled. I could not get it started again, so I pushed the bike into the nearest parking lot and walked home. The bike is still sitting at the bottom of the hill awaiting rescue, but something is going to have to dry before it goes anywhere, I’m afraid.

What I don’t understand is that when I got stuck in the rain in St. Augustine, Terry rode the darn thing all the way home — about 50 miles — in the rain with no clutch cable and no trouble. Sheesh. Just my luck. Speaking with Terry a few minutes ago, he had no idea what it could be: “Maybe the air filter. Maybe the points.” While I like my R80/7, I’m thinking I should have just gotten a later-model BMW. Should I still take it to Mobile next week? That’s all I need is to get stuck in the middle of Alabama and have myself a good ol’ Deliverance experience. I wanted adventure.

After waiting out the rain for a bit this morning, I left Mom’s about 10 a.m., followed by Tim in Tabatha in their new Honda Accord; that seemed appropriate: two new vehicles tooling up state road 100 toward Lake City. The Ts left me at 441, taking the interstate north: I decided to tour a bit, to break in the bike as I slowly made my way back to Macon. The soundtrack in my head kept playing Steely Dan’s “Everything Must Go.”

About the time I cleared Lake City, the rain had decided to pester some other part of the country, and the sun accompanied me for most for most of the rest of my journey. My first stop — after having 441 to myself for nearly fifty miles — was Fargo, Georgia‘s only ostensible gas station for a Coke and a look at the atlas. The day was temperate, so my jacket and helmet left little residue on my clothes. I sat on a bench enjoying the pleasantly warm day when a group of riders on their new Harleys invaded the station. They chatted with me for a bit, as intrigued with my old winged beast as I was disinterested in their chrome monsters. They were all from Moody Air Force base near Valdosta out for a Sunday ride to break in their new bikes. I spoke with a couple that had just gotten back from three months in Iraq; they seemed like they wanted to forget about it, so I didn’t ask questions. The chrome shown hotly in the morning sun as they discussed cruise control and Georgia weather. They consumed their snacks and were off to explore Okefenoke Swamp, while I wished them a pleasant ride and headed north again to my next stop: Pearson, Georgia.

I passed through Homerville — I was somehow expecting more than a single traffic light and a dilapidated gas station — and made it to Pearson in about an hour, stopping for another break at Hardee’s. I sat for a minute and took a couple of pictures; unfortunately, they would be my only pictures of the day. I soon tired of Hardee’s and its parking lot (you can imagine), so off I went toward McRae where I would catch state road 23 to Macon. After a quick lunch for me and the R80/7 in Douglas — the largest town on my route — I resumed my trek only to hit some sidling rain. As the rain snuck up on me, I didn’t have rain gear ready, so I pulled over into this serendipitous old shack that had a carport and donned my rain gear. As it was still raining pretty hard, I waited for a few more minutes when I had the day’s first incident.

When I had all of my equipment back on — a task in itself to manipulate the jacket, helmet, rain jacket, and gloves quickly enough not to turn into a human sauna before I can get moving again — I could not get the bike into neutral. For those of you who may not know: you cannot start a BMW (at least my particular flavor) without the bike in neutral. Try as I might I could not get the damn thing started. I struggled for several minutes, pushing the clutch in and out, the gear shift up and down, until I got frustrated and took all my equipment off before I drowned in my own perspiration. Putting my gear delicately aside on the ground, I mounted the bike to try again; immediately, I found neutral. Figures. While slightly irritated, I was mostly relieved. I could imaging that call: “Uh, mom, I’m north of some small town in Georgia a million miles from you . . . can you come get me?” After getting my gear back on, the rain had turned from a trickle to a garden hose, but I was ready to go. The downpour lasted for a few miles, enough to get my pants throughly drenched, but just as quickly as the rain hit, the sun emerged from behind the cloud and dried my jeans with the help of the wind. I was soon in McRae where I had my second incident.

I pulled into a gas station and into a parking slot that had uneven pavement. I began to take my gloves off when I started to lose my balance — the bike was falling. I struggled to keep it up, but I knew that I would not be able to, and I also knew that once it was on the ground, I would not be able to get it back up myself. Fortunately, this guy in a truck next to me saw what was happening, and he came to my rescue. I was grateful and rewarded his generosity with a Gatorade. Close.

As I turned northwest onto 23, I felt myself getting tired. I was about 70 miles from Macon, but I told myself that I would stop in Cochran for another break before getting home. Well, I didn’t. I rode through my fatigue and beautiful forested roads all the way to I-16, just east of Macon. I’m not sure why I did this; it just seemed to happen. I was captivated by the ride, so the aches in my hands and back lost precedent to the experience of riding. The setting sun combined with the 70 mph wind, and my flight was relief enough. Making it to I-16 was a surprise: I was expecting 23 to take me into Macon. I could see another storm approaching from the north, so I decided to take 16 west into Macon, even though I’m not supposed to ride on the interstates while I’m learning. After three miles, I hit a wall of traffic and rain, so I exited into downtown Macon and made my way home up Vineville. I was glad to be back, something I never thought I would say about Macon. The R80/7 is now resting under its cover. I feel my aches again, and I now know what real fatigue is: a content exhaustion that I feel earns me some real rest. I will sleep well tonight and get back to work tomorrow. The weekend is over, but there’s always the next one. Where should I go then?

Having successfully negotiated a bit of traffic and several stop lights in Starke, I soon hit open road as I decided to head toward Gainesville. The road slowly melted away my apprehension replacing it with exuberance. My little baby soul (thanks, Neil) whispered yesyesyes as I slowly gained confidence in my abilities. I brain quickly memorized the subtle pressure needed to release the clutch just right; my left foot knew where the gears could be found; my right hand did not hold back now. The immediacy of my surroundings could be felt even through my helmet and protective gear, and I even lifted the faceplate as I approached Waldo to kiss the wind.

Forty-five and not more through Waldo until 301 splits left to Ocala or right to state road 24 on its way to Gainesville. I left 301 deciding that Gainesville would offer me a place to have a cup of coffee and write a letter I have been meaning to write. In another twenty minutes clear riding, I arrived in Gainesville. I was turned around for a minute, but eventually found University. Heading west toward I-75, I decided that I would get some cloves and then some coffee.

Leaving the bike, I felt a bit shaky — my limbs being unaccustomed to the vibrations and physical demands of a motorcycle. My enthusiasm was written on my body, sweaty marks that I would have to get used to. I felt good. Having procured my smokes from a little tobacconist in a strip mall, I sat down on the curb next to the R80/7. As I relaxed a moment, I noticed a family doing traveling things outside a minivan a couple of spaces down from me. There were babies crying and mothers fussing, and I didn’t think anything of it. Well, apparently the family patriarch took an interest in my bike, and he had to come over for a moment to share his admiration. I was only too pleased to offer what I knew about the Beemer; he stood there looking at the bike and telling me about his son who rides. I smiled and chatted with him for a few minutes until he was called away. He wished me safe travels, and I him. I think a part of him envied me as he drove several generations of his family back toward the interstate.

Up the street, Starbuck’s gladly sold me a cup of dark roast. I noticed that riding to Starbuck’s in the heavy traffic near I-75, that I was comfortable. I guess that riding trough Gainesville in moderately crowded conditions cured me of any lingering apprehension. This should not be interpreted as cockiness, since I remain chary, but as my body and the machine learning each other — not necessarily something for the mind to concern itself with. After all, one of the prime motivators for this purchase was its ability to soothe my Macon-weary head, a panacea for that old soul to make room for the new. The baby soul has to be nurtured and cared for, aware of the mistakes of his father, yet keeping those good things, those small things that are still of value.

After a coffee, clove, and a bit of writing, the warrior suited up and mounted his steed only to go nowhere fast. The mighty knight could not find neutral. The first problem. Here I am with bulky helmet and gear on sitting in the Starbuck’s parking lot unable to start my motorcycle. The few people who were sitting outside gave me sympathetic glances — at least that’s how my now anxious mind interpreted them — until I was finally able to find neutral and start the engine. Lesson learned: don’t get cocky. Things go wrong, and you will have to deal with each. Don’t panic. Breathe.

I headed back the way I came, intending to turn north on 441 just after the university. As I sat in the turn lane waiting on the light, a dude on an older model Honda motorcycle pulled up next to me and noded. I returned the greeting. He asked me after a moment: “How fast does your bike go?” I informed him that I had just gotten it and confessed that I have only gone about 80 on it so far, though I knew it had room left beyond that. He asked me what year the bike was.

“1978,” said I.

“Mine’s a 1975.” He returned.

“I hear Honda’s are nice.” I had trained on an older Honda, so I knew at least one other.

“Yeah.” Then, after another moment, “Maybe we should race sometime.”

The light changed from red to green, and he took off, like a rabbit running from a hunter. I followed easily, taking the left lane. He was almost immediately stuck behind a car, and I never saw him again. I will not be a racing fool.

A couple miles out of town, I took a right on 121 — an almost deserted two-lane country road, much like the one heading out of Raiford that I traversed earlier. The air was cool in the verdant shade of the curves; the sun winked at me from behind the trees on my left as I sped northward. Occasionally the landscape would spread out into fields and farms that would allow the setting sun to smile on my progress, engine barely noticeable through the summer of North Florida. I eventually made my way to a park on the Santa Fe River, I think. I can’t remember the name of the park anymore, lost somewhere in the travels of my mind; I turned in and made my way down to the river where I thought I would take a break. I pulled up next to the only other cars I saw and parked. As I took off my helmet, this guy approached me and marveled at the R80/7. He was truly impressed at my “vintage bike . . . uh, I mean motorcycle,” he corrected himself. I told him that I like it quite a bit myself; then he proceeded to tell me about why the engine is designed the way it is: “those fins sticking out like that allow the engine to more efficiently air-cool.” He was a nice guy who used to ride a Moto Guzzi, but “not anymore.” He was certainly impressed with the Beemer, and he and I chatted a bit longer before I decided to head out.

On my way out, I began to understand one of the fascinations many seem to have with riding a motorcycle. Sure, it’s the intense feeling of freedom and isolation when the wind travels through them like an angel touching their souls, but I think it also has to do with the community of people who love their bikes and love to ride. If it weren’t for the R80/7, I would not have met and talked with three people today. I have never been too sociable, a trait that I have often questioned about myself. When riding, I can have the isolation that I crave — a time for introspection and isolation — but I can also have the added sociability that comes with having to stop and rest. I want to meet others, and perhaps the motorcycle will provide the catalyst that my soul needs to actually communicate on a more meaningful level. Socially, I have always been pretty much a failure; maybe some things can change.

I was at Mom’s in time for dinner, but the desire to keep riding never left. I looked forward to the next day’s ride, even though the stormclouds were moving in.